


Nippitaty (or, The Angel's Share)

by Zaniida



Series: Five Acceptable Bargains -- October AU Variants [3]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Altered Senses, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood Drinking, Denise's Delight, Effects of Blood Loss, Gen, Informed Consent (Nonsexual), Mind Manipulation, Negotiations, October Content, Panic Attacks, Primal Fear, Psychic Abilities, our vampires are different, secrecy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-21
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2019-01-20 18:59:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12439533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaniida/pseuds/Zaniida
Summary: When Harold tries to negotiate with Elias, the crime lord turns out to be another sort of lord altogether -- whose choice of payment is unexpectedly personal.Note: I am really seriously waffling over the name of this piece.  Be aware that it might change drastically over time.





	1. Negotiations

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MulaSaWala](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MulaSaWala/gifts).



> So, the original sequence of publication was supposed to be:
> 
>   1. **Bargains Chapter Zero:** Elias tries to make Harold kill (Harold refuses) 
>   2. **Chapter One:** Elias gets Harold to use his wealth for something cute and harmless 
>   3. _Chapter Two:_ Elias gets Harold to hand over information 
>   4. Chapter Three: Elias gets Harold to help out with a heist or similar activity (uses Harold's skills) 
>   5. _Chapter Four:_ Elias gets Harold to surrender his body 
>   6. Chapter Five: Elias's final offer, which I haven't yet decided on 
>   7. **Halloween Bargains Chapter Zero:** Harold tries to undo John's death (but the cost is too much, so he backs down) 
>   8. Chapter One: Ghosts! Likely a haunted house. 
>   9. Chapter Two: ??? 
>   10. Chapter Three: ??? 
>   11. **Chapter Four:** Vampire Elias gets Harold to agree to feed him 
>   12. Chapter Five: ??? 
> 

> 
> The original idea was to have the two 5+1 fics mirror each other in some key fashions, most notably where the Chapter Fours overlap (Elias getting Harold to surrender his body literally, and also symbolically). Bringing this idea to fruition should've meant publishing them in that order, or, at the _very_ least, publishing the non-AU version of a given chapter before the AU version.
> 
> Unfortunately, I wasn't able to write them in time. I hope this note won't act as a tombstone for fics that never get written*, but rather as a preview of upcoming events (whether soon, or October of next year, who knows). But as far as what I have written already, the **bold titles** have already been published here, in whole or in part, while the _italic titles_ have a significant amount of writing done. I do hope to get at least a little more of these stories published before NaNoWriMo kicks in.
> 
>  _P.S. Another event taking up my time: My YouTube channel is about to celebrate its anniversary (October 24th), as well as take part in the Extra Life charity fundraiser for Seattle Children's Hospital (November 4th). The anniversary marks one year since I started taking my channel seriously and posting videos six days a week._ https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCmCyiOeedwFKB2RVBFPKbog
> 
>  **Note:** If you happen to think I went overboard with the initial panic, please read the end note for justification. I did exaggerate a bit, because it's fun, but I don't think I went _that_ overboard.
> 
> *I'm never stingy with my ideas; feel free to write your own variants (and send me the links!). And if I've been gone from the fandom for over two years with no updates, and my Twitter account has also gone silent, consider this permission to "take over" any existing unfinished series and write your own continuations or conclusions, as a potential closure for the community ^_^  
> https://twitter.com/arkyliezaniida
> 
> Incidentally, although it wasn't a direct inspiration for this fic, _Where the World Grows Thin_ by icarus_chained bears some resemblances to this deal, and it's darker.  
>  https://archiveofourown.org/works/1921956
> 
> And MulaSaWala reminded me of the only other vampire POI fic I can recall coming across, which, again, wasn't a direct inspiration for this fic, but is worth noting: _a creature more of night than day_  
>  http://archiveofourown.org/works/5117717  
>  **the_ragnarok** is, of course, a highly skilled author, and more than one of her works number among my favorite POI fics. So it's no surprise that she's woven an intriguing world through background detail, sparse explanations, and the encounter with just one additional vampire. Hope I can manage something similarly worthy at some point ^_^

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Lisagarland** has created several pieces of creepy but delicious fan art for this series! They're finally up on Deviant Art, so have a gander: https://lisagarland199.deviantart.com/art/what-have-i-done-738937343

“Everything does come with a cost.”

“I assumed there would be. What is it you want?”

“Well, as I said, I have no need of possessions. All the same, there are certain… amenities that I’d grown used to that I find harder to procure behind these walls. Anthony’s my usual supplier, you see, and with me stuck in here, he’s out there shouldering twice the burden he normally does. I can’t in good conscience ask him to do more than that right now. But you -- you might be just the person I need to fill the gap. Assuming, of course, that you find my services worth the cost.”

Harold tilted his head slightly. “What sort of amenities would you require?”

Elias’s usual grin grew wide, and as he opened his mouth, Harold saw -- for a split-second -- his eye teeth lengthening into elegant, glinting fangs.

The next thing he knew he was backed into the wall -- he’d somehow gotten out of his chair that fast, though the movement itself happened without conscious thought -- with his heartbeat thundering in his ears, his breaths too fast to count. To the part of his brain that reacted to danger, there was no question of the reality, no doubting his senses or trying to logic away the truth: The man before him was a vampire, and Harold’s understanding of the world had just undergone a shift so massive that even the room seemed to be spinning.

“Now, there’s no need for _that_ ,” Elias said calmly, from his seat at the table--

\--and then, a blur faster than Harold’s eyes could follow, he was beside Harold, mere inches away, spiking the adrenaline to another high so fast that Harold let out a whimper. But he was frozen in place -- utterly helpless.

“ ** _I could certainly hurt you_** ,” Elias said, voice suddenly deeper, but only for a moment; “but I’m not going to. You came here to do business with me” -- and just as fast as he had come, he was back at the table -- “so let’s talk business. Have a seat.”

Legs barely able to support him, Harold stayed pressed against the wall -- but his gaze darted toward his fallen chair. Elias looked, too, and chuckled. “My apologies,” he said, and walked over -- simple, human -- and picked the chair up, placed it back near the table.

Then he calmly studied Harold.

Trembling, Harold felt trapped, at the mercy of forces he couldn’t fight, could barely understand. There was a rushing sound in his ears; his head felt heavy, and his breaths were coming in frantic gasps. Like a child trying to hide from a monster, he wanted to squeeze his eyes shut, as if somehow that could protect him -- but his gaze was locked onto Elias, his survival instincts telling him that the only way to live was to stay aware of the threat at all times.

It was futile, of course, and he knew it. If Elias wanted him dead, there was no way to defend against it; he would be dead before the guards could even get inside. Which meant, logically, that Elias did _not_ want him dead. That knowledge was a tiny facet of his awareness right now, no defense against the panic, the terror that pressed in against him, suffocated him.

“That’s enough of that,” Elias said from beside him, firm hands taking him by the shoulders, turning him, pushing him backwards, off-balance, down -- into a chair that hadn’t been there a moment ago. It happened so quickly that Harold didn’t even have time to react -- and then his terror spiked anew as the chair lifted into the air and repositioned itself at the table.

When Elias walked out from behind him and headed back toward his own chair, Harold realized that he must have lifted the chair, with Harold on it -- as easily as lifting an empty cardboard box.

“I’m sorry for the dramatics,” Elias said as he sat down, “but now I know that your heart is in good condition -- I can hear that much.” He tapped his ear. “That was important to establish before the bargain I intend to propose. And now that you know what I’m capable of, perhaps you’ll better appreciate it when I say that I do not intend to use my powers to harm you in any way. Even if we sometimes work at cross-purposes, I value the benefit you and John bring to this city.”

It was a long moment while Harold tried to gather himself enough to even speak. “You-- you--” he finally managed, and then, “You can’t be a vampire. I-- John-- the first time we met-- unless you’re-- when did you?” He stopped and blinked rapidly, trying to catch his breath.

Elias chuckled broadly, his eye teeth back to normal, and waited.

Harold drew in a breath. “Were you turned… recently?”

“Oh, no, decades ago,” Elias said. “There are some fanciful stories about vampires staying in the form they were when they got turned, but I have far more control of my appearance than that. It would be rather odd to see a teenager never grow up.”

Brows raised, Harold glanced to the side, trying to sort it all out in his head; he was still breathing hard. “But you were in the sun! And I’ve-- seen you on cameras, that requires mirrors--”

“Ah, yes,” Elias murmured indulgently. “All those little folk tales about a vampire’s weaknesses and limitations. No sunlight, no running water, can’t come in unless invited, allergic to garlic, shies away from churches and crosses. Needs to sleep on his native soil. Killed only by a wooden stake through the heart.” He waved a hand. “Do you know where most of those ideas come from? The victim of a mob attack trying desperately to come up with some way to save himself.”

“…What?”

“Say you’re an innocent villager who happens to catch the ire of the local busybody, and they convince the town that you’re in league with Satan, because how else could you have supernatural powers? But you think quickly and say, ‘But if I were a vampire, then holy water would burn me!’ And they pour holy water on you and you’re fine and you get to live.

“Some other century, another victim doesn’t have any holy water around, so she says, ‘But if I were a servant of Satan, I wouldn’t have a soul, and we all know that you have to have a soul to reflect in a mirror!’ And so the lore gets built up over the centuries, and we still bear it today.”

Harold paused, trying to wrap his head around the idea. “That… could explain a lot.” It did seem to account for most of the odd ideas he’d heard, and how contradictory many of them seemed. Except -- “Wait… how does it explain the wooden stake through the heart?”

“Far more tragic,” Elias said soberly. “Used to be, the way to kill a witch was to burn them alive; that got extrapolated to other ‘servants of the dark forces.’ Some poor guy couldn’t think of how to save himself, but he managed to cut down on the suffering by claiming that unless he were killed in a particular way, he’d rise again! And of course the way to ‘really’ kill him off was to ensure that he was truly dead _before_ the flames -- and stabbing him through the heart did the trick. Same with decapitation, by the way.”

“I… suppose that makes sense.” Part of him felt like nothing would ever make sense again, but it felt somehow grounding to know that there were actual, logical reasons for some of the details built up around the vampire myth.

Not a myth. The vampire reality, around which mythical details had been built up. It was a lot to take in, and he wasn’t really done panicking, but at least the idea abided by some sense of logic, which made it easier for him to try to regain his composure.

“So no, I don’t need to avoid the sun,” Elias asserted, “or worry about crosses. And if I ever track down your residence, I won’t need your permission to come inside. But I do have a few supernatural powers, and in order to use them, I need to have a certain reserve of strength… which I get from drinking blood. As I said, Anthony used to supply me with everything I needed in that area, but as the donation process leaves one a little… mmm… incapacitated, I really can’t risk letting him do that right now. He’s got enough on his shoulders.”

Harold was sure that the blood had drained from his own face when he managed to take in a breath and confirm, shakily, “You want me to… _feed_ you.”

Elias shrugged. “You want me to tangle with Massey. I certainly have the power, but it’s somewhat more troublesome than I care to deal with at the moment. The fact that John saved my life -- bullets _can_ kill us, and I was low on energy at the time -- makes me willing to consider your offer. The fact that I value your contribution to the city keeps the price low. On the other hand, I _could_ get my needs met in a different way, whereas you would never have come to ask for my aid if you did not consider the situation unmanageably dire.”

A shiver ran down Harold’s back, but he drew himself up a little, trying not to lose all the ground in this negotiation. “And what qualities in me do you see as better able to meet your need than, say, any of the other inmates trapped in here with you?”

“Ah, but if I feed off the inmates, I reveal my nature to those who might want to harm me. It’s a delicate balance, maintaining power while not displaying my full hand. We are both men of secrets, and so, in a way, we hold each other’s secrets hostage.

“Beyond that,” he said, leaning back in his chair, “the food here is hardly conducive to good health, and many here have other ailments; their various diseases can’t affect me, true, but they do make the blood taste… sour. You seem to be in much better health, and, given your wardrobe, I’d expect your diet to be similarly discerning.”

Harold narrowed his eyes at Elias. “I do take a number of medications.”

“Again, that won’t affect me. It may affect the taste of the blood, but hardly as much as a disease does. Or a high-fat diet.”

“…Disabilities don’t factor into this?”

“What, those pins in your neck, your bad back? Hmm. Are you more concerned with how they would affect me, or how my feeding might affect _you_?”

 _Suddenly I’m more concerned with how you figured out my exact injuries_ , Harold didn’t say. It seemed unlikely that Elias had been able to research him ahead of time, but the vampire's supernatural senses were a reasonable guess. Could he scent titanium, even within the body? Or see the heat from Harold’s body, and some change from the injuries? Work it out from his limited range of motion?

Rather than focus on that issue, Harold went back to Elias’s original question. “Both.”

“Implants won’t affect me, and if yours would prevent me from feeding off of a particular part of your body, well, there are plenty of other donation sites. Again, it’s not my intention to harm you, or to cause you any pain beyond the unavoidable, and I see no reason we couldn’t work around your particular injuries.”

Harold swallowed. “How… how much would you need?”

“Well.” Elias steepled his fingers under his chin. “Blood donation centers err on the side of caution; they take a certain amount of blood based on weight, no more than every three months for men. I would take more than a blood donation, but, during a feeding, I have a quite accurate awareness of the body whose blood I’m connected to, and could stop well before any permanent damage. The amount would not be enough to kill you, but it would make you weak for a while. My powers would, mmm, encourage your body to produce red blood cells much faster than normal.”

“You said it’s not your _intention_ to harm me, but -- would the feeding process, in fact, do me any significant harm?”

“Not at all. I’d hardly feed off Anthony if it were hurting him. After the feeding, you’d feel weak, and by the next morning you’d feel fine, but perhaps get lightheaded during strenuous activities. That effect shouldn’t last more than a day or two, and within a month you would be ready for the next feeding.”

Staring at his hands, Harold felt his shoulders tensing up. “How m-many feedings are you asking for?”

“Given the hassle of dealing with Massey, who is, after all, a rather big name in crime around here… and the chance that I might have to have Anthony make an example of anyone who ignored my countermand… I think that three feedings would be sufficient, and four would be ample.” His lips jutted out in a brief moue. “You could go up to five, if you like, and have me in a much better mood to negotiate the next time you seek my help.”

Harold nodded slowly. “I see.”

“There _are_ other bargains we could make. Still, unless I’m misjudging the way things sit between us, this may be the most advantageous for you and your team.”

“I see that,” Harold murmured. “Mr. Elias… I can’t say that we put much stock in your word anymore, but… swear to me that you do not intend to harm me, or… t-turn me.”

Elias’s eyebrows shot up. “Make you into a vampire as well? Well, that would run counter to the idea of getting blood from you -- vampires can’t feed each other, you know. But it would give you the power to cure those pins in your neck. You’d have the ability to transform your body in any number of ways -- and greater ability to work the cases you’re working. It’s not that we’re evil, either, so you needn’t worry about losing your soul or any of that nonsense. Are you certain you wouldn’t like to change?”

“ _Quite_ certain, thank you.”

“Then I pledge, on the life of my dear friend Anthony, that I do not intend to harm you or turn you into a vampire. Or a thrall, for that matter. When our business is concluded, you will not be significantly different from what you are now. Physically, you may be somewhat healthier: In addition to your blood, I’d be removing a certain amount of impurities that are coursing through your veins even now. Your human nature will be intact, as will your free will.

“As far as informed consent: The feeding process would establish a certain bond between us. I imagine that your primary concerns would be privacy and coercion. The bond has no effect on your free will, or your ability to resist my powers or my desires. It will attune me to your scent, and, more notably, let me sense your presence without the use of my more human senses -- when you are fairly close to me, somewhat less than a city block away. This could certainly make it easier for me to find you, but I would like to point out that even without the bond, if I cared to track you down, it would hardly be difficult for me to do so. When in proximity, I would be aware of your health and, to some degree, your emotions.”

Stomach queasy, Harold clutched desperately at logic. Since Elias could have just stayed quiet about the bond, pointing it out indicated a somewhat higher level of trustworthiness -- even if the thought of bonding with Elias made Harold want to just bolt from the chair and run away. What was he risking, here? He wouldn’t be able to hide his emotions from Elias; negotiations would be harder, but that might be off-balanced by the goodwill from having fed him. Letting Elias track him down more easily meant exposing their base of operations, his safe houses… it might even compromise their allies, revealing their connection to Carter, Fusco, Zoe. Still, Elias was correct: Given his powers, it seemed unlikely that their secrets would stay secret very long.

He could hide from Elias, of course, move his base outside of New York City and still help John from afar -- but so long as he remained active in the field, he was accepting a certain vulnerability. The bond wouldn’t change that… much.

The idea of Elias being able to sense his health issues troubled him, but that was just his private nature asserting itself. Aside from _possibly_ tracking down his aliases through medical records -- which would require a little more than merely knowing the extent of his injuries -- he couldn’t think of much that Elias could do with the information.

“Is the bond permanent?” he asked, finally.

“It will last for several months beyond our last feeding. Without that renewal, it does fade away over time.”

“Would you be able to sense me through walls?”

“Yes. No physical matter can block the bond-sense.”

Harold raised his eyebrows and looked away; despite his best efforts, his chin was trembling. “Anything else I should know b-before I…” He stopped short and sucked in deep, shaky breaths. Unless Elias’s next words were somehow worse than a bond… the issue had already been decided. John’s life was at stake -- and Harold had come prepared to agree to any number of unsavory deals, just to get Elias to call off the bounty. By all rights, this would be comparatively mild.

If he could only get his system to calm down enough to believe that.

Elias tilted his head to one side. “I believe I’ve told you everything you need to make an informed decision. As I've said, there are other ways I could get my needs met, and other bargains we could make; you don’t have to agree to this if it’s that distasteful to you.”

Sucking in a breath, Harold raised his chin. “The bargain is acceptable: five donations. Do you require the first today?”

“It would be a nice show of faith. Do you have any reason not to provide it today?”

“No,” Harold said, feeling the finality of the decision. “No, let’s get this over with.” He reached up and slid his tie free, then unbuttoned the top of his shirt with cold fingers, and pulled loose the collar -- not failing to notice Elias’s smile growing wider as his fangs grew in again.

Neck bared, Harold sat there, still and trembling, as Elias calmly got to his feet and walked around the table. The crime lord moved behind Harold, fingers brushing along his shoulders, the nape of his neck.

Closing his eyes, Harold took in shaky breaths until he felt cold air on the side of his neck. He couldn’t help letting out a whimper.

“Adrenaline is a flavor most vampires enjoy,” Elias murmured in his ear. “It’s too sharp for my taste. But then, it took Anthony a few sessions to calm down and appreciate his role; I can hardly fault you for finding it difficult to relax. Perhaps next time I’ll find a way to keep you calmer, but for now--” and his mouth dipped low, brushed the juncture between neck and shoulder.

The cool dampness registered a second before the pain, sudden and sharp; and then Elias was drawing out the blood in slow, insistent pulls. Harold kept his hands on the table, clenched, trying to focus on letting this happen, not fighting it, not trying to bolt. He’d agreed to the deal; Elias wasn’t going to kill him, wasn’t going to turn him. That is, if he could actually trust Elias -- but it was too late now for second thoughts.

His body felt heavy, first too warm and then, progressively, colder and colder. His hands slipped from the table, dangled limply at his sides. Elias’s hand moved up to cradle his head as his body lost its tension, the world condensing down to that small point of pressure, of movement, as it drained away strength and fear and even pain, leaving nothing but a quiet lassitude. At one point he took in a sudden breath, only to realize that he’d somehow been holding his breath, but it didn’t seem to matter; nothing did.

The slide of Elias’s teeth as he pulled out brought Harold back to himself, just barely. If the movement had hurt, he didn’t really feel it -- and then Elias was licking at the wound, and Harold’s eyes fell closed again at the sensation.

Existing in a fog, without fear or pain or thought, barely even aware of his own body, he felt… calm. He couldn’t even compare it to anything; there was no sense of past or present, time or memory.

The world moved; he blinked and found Elias lifting the chair, with him in it, and setting it away from the table. Too drained to wonder or protest, Harold sat there gazing vacantly at Elias as the vampire lord knelt in front of him, staring intently into his eyes.

“You didn’t bother to ask what other powers I have,” Elias murmured, the grin slowly growing across his face. “But you’re about to find out what I can do while you’re in a thrall state.”

Harold blinked at him, his mind incapable of making sense of the words.

And then there was nothing in the world but Elias’s deep brown eyes, and he was drowning in them.

* * * * *

* * * *

* * * * *

Harold didn’t remember leaving Rikers, and the ride home left him a bit muzzy. He was just walking up the stairs in the library when he realized that he ought to call John. Stopping short, he leaned against the railing -- feeling more winded than usual -- and pulled out his cell phone.

It was off. He turned it on, wondering why he hadn't done so immediately after leaving Rikers. There were three messages from Fusco, but he didn't have time to worry about that, either; he dialed John.

John answered quickly. “How’d it go, Finch?”

“I believe our… bounty hunter problem has… has been neutralized,” Finch said, finding it a little hard to catch his breath enough to talk.

“You actually got Elias to help us out?”

“We were able to come to… an arrangement,” he said, hesitant to inform John of exactly what that arrangement had been. “He’s made Massey’s bounty forbidden fruit. Anyone going after it will have to answer to him.”

“Looks like somebody didn’t get the message,” John retorted. “Annie’s been taken; we’re heading to a place called _The Emerald Pearl_. Riley thinks that’s where Massey’s goons would take her. Can you get surveillance up?”

“Certainly,” Harold said -- “just give me a moment.” He finished his way up the stairs and started limping toward the computer table.

“Oh, and Finch?” John said, just as Harold slid into his seat. “I hate it when you go off the grid.”

“Needs must, Mr. Reese,” Harold retorted, choosing not to point out how helpless he felt each time John’s comm went dead and he was left to sit there, useless, all too aware that one of these missions would be John’s last and wondering if they’d finally hit that end point.

He maximized the open browser and quickly typed in the name. “I’ll have that information for you momentarily.”

“Don’t mind the radio silence; we’re gonna be dodging cops for a while.”

Not caring to speculate on how well John was getting on with Riley, Harold started skimming through the search results: advice about healthy living, and a list of… blood donation sites.

Wait.

Blinking, he peered at his search criteria: _What do I do after donating blood?_

He erased it and tried again. _How much water should I drink after donating blood?_

Was this a… hallucination? A quick photo of the screen showed the same words; it didn’t eliminate the possibility of a hallucination -- or a dream -- but certainly made it less likely. He checked his watch a few times, and counted his fingers. The time stayed consistent, and he had the right number of fingers each time he counted: no dream.

Was he subconsciously worried about the feeding? He’d have to deal with that later. The idiom about “eating like a bird” may have been co-opted for the wrong concept -- Harold fondly recalled his father teaching him a bird’s true eating habits, a quarter to a half of its body weight daily (and for a hummingbird, up to twice its own weight in nectar) -- but it did accurately describe him: It was normal for him to eat sparingly throughout the day. At the moment, he was feeling a little dizzy, but not too weak; he needed to get to work.

He typed in: _What should I eat after donating blood?_

Three for three. Harold erased the search and, letter by letter, slowly started to type--

_Don’t over-ex_

He froze, a sudden rushing noise in his ears. Then he continued typing:

_Don’t over-exert yourself either, Harold._

Elias… was sending him messages. He’d never heard of a vampire who could do this, but then, a lot of common knowledge about vampires had turned out to be nonsense. Who knew what all Elias could do from Rikers?

He tried to type _Is that you, Mr. Elias?_ but it came out _In case you’re wondering, I just implanted a few suggestions earlier._

The words flowed freely whenever he tried to type anything at all, and stopped only when he fought the effect -- which, thankfully, wasn’t difficult. But it did seem that he’d keep doing it until the messages were complete.

_You need water, protein, iron, sodium, and potassium. Drink a few extra glasses of water today and eat some extra fruits and veggies: melons, broccoli, berries, onions, peppers, and leafy greens. Also meat (particularly beef), fish, or beans. Vitamin C increases iron absorption; calcium decreases it, so don’t drink milk with your meals. For a couple of days, cut down on coffee, tea, wine, grapes, chocolate, and peppermint._

Harold paused, his stomach roiling. Elias had basically hypnotized him into writing pre-planted messages. What else could the vampire do to him? Hypnotize him into coding something? Going somewhere? Make him into a sleeper agent? Force him to reveal information? Had he… had Elias already gotten information after the feeding? Before the bus, Harold’s last memory was his hands slipping off the table; he didn’t recall leaving Elias, or Rikers, or even getting on the bus, although he must have managed to do so.

Wait. Elias had _definitely_ gotten information from him. One piece of information: Harold’s name. Harold had gone in as Mr. Crane, and… well, ‘Mr. Crane’ was a traceable alias, but when would Elias have had the time to research it? Or have his allies research it, if he couldn’t do so himself? Still, it was at least _possible_ that they’d done it through normal human means, instead of digging through Harold’s brain to get the info. But he couldn’t shake the horror of being that much at Elias’s mercy, all his secrets laid bare -- it was a threat, a very clear and obvious threat, and going back for a second session was out of the question--

 _Stop that_ , he told himself firmly. There was no denying that Elias posed a threat to their operation -- there were many nefarious ends that Elias could use his powers to accomplish. Yet here, he had used them to ensure that Harold’s health was attended to. True, Harold had already pledged himself to four more sessions, and Elias could hardly get his full payment if Harold weren’t able to stay healthy, so perhaps it was particularly self-serving.

But there was another facet of this situation: Elias could have kept his powers secret, but had instead revealed not only their existence, but the sort of uses they could be put to.

In a way that was difficult to articulate, this act was almost like an olive branch: _I could have done so much to you, but I chose to leave you in peace._

He put his hands to the keys again.

_No alcohol for 48 hours. I don’t imagine that you smoke, but avoid that as well._

_And Harold? Next time you plan to visit, drink a few extra glasses of water the night before, get some good protein, and maybe eat some pineapple; it improves the flavor._

Pineapple. Harold couldn’t help but let out a half-hysterical snort of laughter.

_Just so you know, the only piece of information I pulled from you was your given name. It’s a breach of privacy, I know, but I did want to give you a taste of my powers. And given that you know my whole name, it seemed fair for me to know something more authentic than the name you came to me under._

_I don’t tend to use these powers except on my enemies. And whether or not you consider me to be your enemy, I don’t consider you to be mine. Different methodologies, to be sure, different boundaries of acceptable behavior, but still working toward the same goal: a safer city._

_Hope your cases go well this week. I’ll see you in a month._

After that line, his typing went back to normal; that seemed to be the end of it.

Collapsing backward into his chair, Harold let his arms hang loosely as he tried to cope with the implications of this kind of power. Before the revelation, Elias had been worrisome enough, when they’d thought he was merely another human like anyone else -- when he wielded guns, bombs, and human agents, and a keen intellect employed in patient strategy, extortion, subterfuge. But now?

Elias was a vampire; Marconi was his thrall. The traditional defenses against vampires were useless -- though it was somewhat heartening to know that they weren’t immune to bullets. Among the vampire lord’s tricks were inhuman strength and speed, some form of mind control, and possible telepathy -- all of which raised his threat level tremendously.

And yet… even given all that, Harold would go back to him. In a month. Surrender himself once again to the donation process, and to the vulnerability; no defenses, no caveats. The deal had been struck, and it would be the height of foolishness to anger Elias by failing to uphold his end of it -- especially now that Elias had made good on his word.

John was not going to like this.

Of course, that assumed that he could even convince John of the reality of it, which would hardly be easy. Harold’s own doubts had been overcome in an instant: You couldn’t look a vampire in the face, witness a glimpse of their true nature, and not believe that they were real. But having someone try to convey their reality through words… especially given the paradigm shift that had to happen to accommodate that reality… well, from an outsider’s perspective, Harold could think of half a dozen more reasonable explanations, starting with drugs and _brain tumors_.

John’s ignorance was a potential liability, but, then again, it didn’t seem likely to cause problems in the near future. Behind bars, Elias was contained… or… was he, really? Perhaps he had managed to keep his operation going because he could come and go as he pleased. Could he fly? Turn into smoke and waft through the bars? There was no way to tell where the line was between reasonable possibilities and nonsense. But even so…

Resting his forehead in his hands, Harold breathed deeply, turning the facts over in his mind, but it didn’t seem to help. Generally, he was able to come up with contingency plans for each new threat they uncovered, but this… this was so far beyond him right now. For the moment, he’d have to let it go; maybe his head would be clearer by morning.

As to the question of informing John… if John were convinced of the reality, what would happen then? He’d hardly appreciate Harold turning himself over to Elias this way. Maybe he’d try to interfere with the deal, which would just make matters worse. Harold could see John trying to kill Elias -- likely impossible, and definitely bad -- or trying to negotiate to take Harold’s place. But even if Elias would accept the trade, John needed to be in the field, unhampered by blood loss. Harold’s skills were far less necessary on a day-to-day basis, and he did most of them sitting down; feeling woozy wouldn’t impact his work too much. Not that John would see it that way, or accept the necessity: He didn’t mess around with Harold’s safety.

No, informing John was far more likely to harm the operation than help it, at least for the moment. That made the calculation far more simple.

Harold opened up a new tab on the browser, and got back to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Vampire-Induced Panic:** So imagine you've gone to meet a very dangerous man, and you're already trying to suppress some "survival instinct" reactions to the encounter, in order to properly negotiate with the man for something you seriously need. Part of you is already on alert for signs that this is going wrong and that you should get out of there.
> 
> Then imagine that in the middle of what seems like a normal discussion, the man suddenly turns into a giant snake. Or a panther. And everything in you is telling you that this is _not_ an illusion -- that you are currently in the presence of an animal capable of killing you, that you're trapped in the room with it and help cannot get there in time, even if you scream, and you are probably already dead.
> 
> That would be enough, in and of itself, I think, but Harold has the added nuance of having his entire worldview turned on its head. Where before, science and physics were foundations upon which was built a very logical physical world (and illogical social world, which is the part that more annoys him), now he's suddenly thrown into a chaotic awareness that physics are not what he thought they were (and he doesn't have the information, or the time, to determine what the new normal is), and that mythological non-human creatures can exist. So he's in mental, physical, and emotional shock. (I actually think he comes out of it faster than the previous panic-attack scenes I've written.)
> 
>  **Note:** I've found quite a few werewolf POI fics -- some Rinch, and a surprising number focused on Shoot -- but I have run across only a single vampire POI fic that didn't _also_ include werewolves (specifically: _a creature more of night than day_ ). If you happen to know of any more, or write any, send 'em my way!
> 
> I didn't have time to re-watch the episode where Elias gets captured; if Harold would know that Elias knows their connection to Carter (or Fusco), I'll fix that detail later.
> 
> Lastly: The original name of this piece was _Drinking Buddies_ , but it doesn't seem to fit the tone I'm going for :\


	2. Inquiries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harold returns to Elias for his second donation; they discuss Elias's powers at length, and Elias reveals some of his personal history.
> 
> Oh, and then John gets his first inkling that there might be something weird going on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Nippitaty_ , by the by, means "a particularly fine liquor, especially ale." While I was trying to find vocabulary or phrases I could use that had to do with drinking, that's the only one that really stood out other than _The Angel's Share_ , meaning the amount of alcohol that evaporates while it's in the kegs.
> 
> I'm sure Elias would agree that Harold is a particularly fine vintage -- whether we're talking about the taste of his blood, the elegance of his cultured upbringing, or the steadfastness of his moral character.
> 
> https://www.merriam-webster.com/words-at-play/the-finest-words-for-drinking/nippitaty

The previous night’s case had ended at four-thirty in the morning, with Harold pointedly ignoring his bruised ribs and the throbbing of his sprained ankle, too busy digging gravel out of John’s scraped elbows after attending to the most recent gunshot wound. Luckily, the bullet had only grazed the outside of John's shoulder blade, nothing deeper, but the memory alone still made his heart race.

After the first aid, they both collapsed in the safe house, John on the bed (because Harold had insisted) and Harold on the sofa with all of the pillows (because it was the only way that John would accept letting him give up the bed).

Only a couple of hours later, Harold forced his aching body out to the street to check on what the latest Number would be. Even wrapped in an Ace bandage, his ankle felt weak, hurt every time he put pressure on it, and made his limp even more pronounced; the only grace was that it was his bad leg anyway, so at least he still had one good leg to balance on while resting the other. The same couldn’t be said of his ribs; he only had one set of those, and they hurt every time he pulled in a breath.

When the payphone stayed silent, he blinked wearily, swayed there for a minute or two, and then stumbled along for the rest of Bear’s walk before returning to the comforting warmth of his woolen blankets.

He wasn’t used to taking breaks. Ever since losing Nathan, his life had become one long chain of responsibilities, and the penalty for a day off was unconscionably steep. Even when there weren’t any Numbers to attend to, he had contingencies to set up, funds to manage, aliases to maintain; he put time into caring for their assets -- Fusco, Carter, Morgan -- as well as, when he could, checking up on their previous cases. Knowing that the people they’d saved were still safe went a long way toward easing his mind about the rest of their work; it kept him aware that the benefit was worth whatever cost he had to pay.

But humans weren’t designed to press on as unremittingly as he had; running himself to exhaustion would make it harder to work the cases, harder to focus. And John’s life depended on his ability to keep track of a massive amount of data -- a skill strongly impacted by lack of sleep. That thought made it easier to give in and just relax into the soft Merino wool, letting the tension slowly leave his body. Nothing to do, nowhere he had to go… when was the last time he’d felt so completely free of responsibilities, even for just an hour?

Maybe it was that very rarity that made it difficult for him to fall back to sleep. Weary as he was, it should have been easy; he’d found a position that didn’t put pressure on his back or his ribs, and the growing relief brought him so close to that enveloping darkness. But it wasn’t enough to let him fall off the edge. Was he just too tired to sleep? No, it was more as if something at the edge of his consciousness refused to let him go until he dealt with it.

What was he forgetting? There weren’t any Numbers. Nothing on his internal calendar; he could check his phone’s calendar, but he was usually pretty good at keeping track of upcoming events, and right now it was hard to even think of getting up to find his phone. John was down the hall, safe; he’d checked on Carter and Fusco just yesterday, and none of his alerts had gone off to indicate a danger that he had to pay attention to. Despite how hectic the month had been, he’d managed to stay caught up on most of his cover identities, and what was left could be sorted out easily enough this afternoon.

So what was stopping him from getting some very necessary sleep? It was like a tension in his body, a little reminder of something he’d forgotten to account for--

 _Elias_.

The sudden clench of his stomach brought back images of their first session: the flash of the vampire’s fangs… the brush of his fingers along Harold’s shoulders… the blood draining from his face as he realized exactly what Elias wanted from him. Elias’s hand cradling his head as he lost the strength to hold it up on his own and could only relax into the experience, at the mercy of a crime lord who later used supernatural powers to burn messages into his brain.

 

After getting over the shock of having his brain hijacked that way -- even benevolently, if indeed it were actually benevolent -- he’d considered the need for research. Clearly there was a whole new level of reality that he knew next to nothing about; at this point, he didn’t even know if there were other supernatural creatures _besides_ vampires that they might have to deal with. As always, accurate data was crucial, because ignorance could get either of them killed. But the thought of putting time into the subject alarmed him, for reasons he didn’t care to contemplate, and so he’d done his best to push the idea to the back of his mind -- a matter to deal with later, if at all.

That left him with the nightmares, as well as random flashbacks throughout the day. He’d close his eyes at night and see Elias gliding straight at him, slow but inevitable, a paralyzing fear; he’d be walking through faceless crowds and notice glinting fangs he couldn’t quite pin down. Sometimes Elias would stalk him through endless bookshelves, or be staring at him from the ceiling for just a moment after he opened his eyes, before the waking world reasserted itself and Harold had to convince his system to calm down, that the threat wasn’t real.

In the middle of looking up information for John, he’d feel those fingers on his neck again, and freeze. Interminable as the sensation felt, it rarely lasted more than half a minute -- yet even that was enough for John to pick up on the lapse, after the third or fourth time it happened. When pressed, Harold had found it difficult to offer John a satisfying answer while avoiding mention of Elias or Elias’s newly revealed nature; he’d settled on alluding to PTSD and letting John conclude that it was related to his captivity instead of a newer factor, and hoped it wouldn’t happen often enough for John to question it further.

But then, as the cases started bleeding together and coming at them faster than they could handle on their own -- as they’d called in Fusco’s help for some pieces, Carter for others, even reached out to Ms. Morgan a couple of times (and had to negotiate payment after the fact, to keep her happy enough to keep supporting them) -- the worries over Elias had gotten buried beneath the work, and he had honestly forgotten about the next session that had so troubled him just a couple of weeks before.

 

Now, closing his eyes, he visualized a calendar, worked out the dates -- yes, the last session had been almost exactly a month ago. The first time since Elias’s incarceration that they had sought his aid. Which meant that today -- their first free day in an entire month -- would be the next feeding. Harold turned onto his side, buried his face in the back of the sofa, and let out a groan, hoping it was muffled enough so as not to disturb John.

He was still convinced that John didn’t need to know about this, or, at least, didn’t need to know _right away_. Briefly, he considered sneaking off before John even woke up -- leave a note, possibly get back before John roused himself enough to care -- but then, Harold also needed more than two hours’ sleep if he wanted to stay alert. There were certainly some questions he needed to run by Elias, and navigating social encounters of this magnitude required an unencumbered mind. The whole week had been a trying one, with them getting in late every night, and in one case spending a good thirty-eight hours at full tilt before they’d been able to crash, only to crawl out of bed five hours later for the start of another case. The accumulated sleep debt certainly wouldn’t be doing him any favors; better to replenish while he had the chance.

After forcing himself to go find his phone and set a reminder, Harold stole back to the sofa and pressed himself into the back, and let the darkness take him.

 

Breakfast came somewhat later than either of them was used to -- eleven thirty -- and it was rarer still that they shared a meal, except for the donuts John frequently brought by when Harold was already hard at work on a case. To be free to spend some time together, not as partners working a case, but as friends enjoying each other’s company… the pleasant normalcy was almost enough to offset the coiling anxiety as his appointment drew inexorably closer.

Neither of them really talked; the silence wasn’t awkward, but soothing. Perhaps a man with fewer secrets would find conversation relaxing, but for Harold, there was never an exchange of words without danger, not even with a man as loyal to him as John was. A discussion meant keeping careful track of what information had been conveyed, and mindfully phrasing answers to avoid giving away more than necessary, without making his deceptions too obvious; that meant tension, which was one thing he didn’t need more of this morning.

“You’ll have the day off, of course,” Harold said as they were clearing up the dishes. “I’ve got my own errands to run; I may be out of touch for a few hours this afternoon.”

He’d debated about how, or if, to convey that point -- whether it would be likely to make John focus on ferreting out another secret. But, if pressed, he was prepared to admit that he was seeing Elias, as part of their deal; John didn’t need to know what took place behind those walls.

But John didn’t question him, and they parted ways.

At the bus stop, Harold wondered if he ought to let Elias know in advance that he was coming. But it seemed unlikely that Elias would turn him away, or delay him for more than an hour, so he simply got onto the bus and practiced relaxation techniques all the way to Rikers.

* * * * *

* * * *

* * * * *

“I did wonder if you’d actually show up,” Elias said, as the guards closed the cell door behind Harold and left. “I know I did a little more to you than you expected, last time.”

Being locked in a cell with Elias did not put Harold at ease, but then, rationally, he hadn’t been any safer in the visitation room. If Elias wanted to attack him, there wasn’t anything that Harold could do, in either case. Really, the question was how Elias had managed to bribe the guards into letting a visitor into his cell, but at this point, it wasn’t like the information would help him.

Raising his chin, Harold frowned. “You've fulfilled your end of the bargain, Mr. Elias; I intend to fulfill mine. As to your powers, I can’t say that I was pleased to have been controlled that way, but… I can appreciate what you were trying to accomplish, letting me know what you could have done and, specifically, that you chose not to do it.”

“Message conveyed, then.”

Removing his suit jacket, Harold took a deep breath, and was instantly reminded why he was trying not to do that; it hurt just to breathe, but to expand his lungs that much made the pain so much worse. At least Elias couldn’t see the sudden grimace, though the tension of his body would be obvious, even from the back; perhaps he could pass it off as his normal back pain.

He laid the jacket across one of the beds, hoping it wouldn’t wrinkle too badly. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to get extra protein or pineapple last night,” he said, turning to face Elias. “We were involved in a rather strenuous case, and, the truth of the matter is, I forgot about the timing until just this morning.”

“I look forward to hearing about your activities,” Elias said affably, a sentiment that Harold didn’t find reassuring: How much was the crime lord aware of their movements within the city? “Anyway, the pineapple’s more of a taste preference; you have at least been eating well during the past week?”

Harold hesitated, picturing the tea and donuts they’d survived on most of the past _two_ weeks. He’d been lucky to get a proper breakfast two days out of ten.

Taking a seat on the thin mattress, Elias chuckled. “One of _those_ weeks, I take it? For some reason, I expected you to do most of your work behind a computer screen, but it’s hard to get bruised ribs and sprained ankles just from hacking. I’m kind of impressed that you decided to walk here on an ankle that swollen. At any rate, you don’t feel too anemic, and I’ll be able to cut it short if there’s a problem.”

Frozen, Harold stared at Elias, his mind racing. The fact that his limp was worse, that would’ve been obvious even though he was trying his best to conceal it; maybe Elias had noticed the Ace bandage. But his ribs? Had Elias already heard about the altercation -- that fast? Had he picked it up from Harold’s reactions, maybe the wince as he’d taken his jacket off? But that could hardly have been anything but a guess, and this didn’t sound like a guess. And how the hell could Elias “feel” whether he was anemic or not? When he was feeding, sure, but--

“Planning to panic again?” Elias asked mildly.

Swallowing down his reaction as best as he could, Harold took a quick breath and looked Elias in the eyes. “I… can’t say that I’ve had the best nutrition this past week, but I don’t feel particularly bad -- just stressed.”

“Well… you came in uneasy and worried about something, and just a minute ago your fight-or-flight system keyed up, which means it’s not about our meeting but about something I said.”

“ _How are you doing that?_ ” Harold gasped, taking a step backward without even thinking. The bars stopped him and he closed his eyes, chin trembling as he sought to get control of himself. Panicking wouldn’t help; he knew that. But he was trapped with a predatory creature of supernatural speed and strength who could, somehow, sense his body and even his emotions--

“I’m sure I mentioned to you that the feeding would create a bond,” Elias said, eyebrows drawing together. “I can sense you through walls, sense your health and your emotions -- though not what caused them.”

Oh. He remembered it now, their discussion -- right before Harold had agreed to the deal. The bond was one of the details that had worried Harold the most, so it seemed odd for him to have forgotten it… but then again, maybe the only way he’d been able to calm down had been to push that thought out of his head for a while.

“What… what else do you sense about me?” he asked, trying to regain his composure.

Elias closed his eyes. “You’re on a few medications, including one to reduce blood pressure, which is probably important in a job as stressful as yours. Aside from that… you’re in pretty good health. No diseases or ailments, not even a cold.”

“I… guess that’s some consolation,” Harold said, not feeling particularly consoled by it.

“Well, at any rate, you’re here. Would you like to discuss anything else before we get started?”

Harold’s brows drew together. “Yes, in fact.” He took in a breath, hoping he had the right level of diplomacy for this line of questioning. Would Elias even deign to answer him? “To begin with, I would like an explanation of exactly what you did to me last time.”

“Certainly. From which starting point?”

“Aside from taking my blood, what sort of powers did you use on me, and what sort of effects did they have?”

“Mmm.” Elias steepled his fingers under his chin. “Well, bringing out my fangs caused a severe adrenaline reaction, but I doubt that’s what you mean; it wasn’t any different from how you might react to the sudden appearance of a wild animal.”

“You didn’t deliberately cause that effect, then?”

“Oh, I meant to provoke it, certainly -- but there’s nothing about my powers that forced you to react that way. I didn’t increase the reaction through any supernatural means.”

“Good to know.”

“The feeding itself creates a sort of mild euphoria, which isn’t merely the blood loss; my powers do that to encourage you to quiet down and just, well, enjoy the sensations more than you otherwise would. It also reduces the negative effects of losing that much blood, so you wouldn’t throw up, for example.

“Once you were in a thrall state -- that’s the physical and mental state at the end of a feeding, when my powers are most effective because you literally can’t think to fight it -- I sought out your name, specifically. Only your given name; I could have taken a lot more, had I wished to, but I do want to establish some level of trust between us if we’re going to both be operating in the same city over the long term. I can aim my telepathy quite precisely, so no other pieces of information came through the link. Oh, and it’s fairly easy to fight off telepathy, and you’d definitely be aware of it, so getting you to the thrall state is pretty much the only chance I have to take information without your permission.”

“I… see,” Harold said. Again, less than reassuring; even if he could trust Elias that it _was_ merely his name, the thought of the intrusion itself still made him tense.

“After that, I implanted two sets of instructions. One of them was the messages: After arriving at a place you felt safe, the next time you started writing or typing, you were to write yourself the messages, thus ensuring that you had the information to best recover from the feeding, at a time when you were most likely to be able to make use of it. I included an override: If you felt as though you or John was in immediate danger due to the messages, you could postpone the transmission until later on.”

“So you didn’t transmit them to me from Rikers.”

Elias shook his head. “I can’t broadcast that far. My powers are fairly short-range, with the exception of a couple that I can only use with a thrall like Anthony, who is attuned to them and willing to receive their effects.”

“And… the other set of instructions?”

“To get home safely, without unnecessary detours or delays. Again, there was an override in case your safety or John’s was at stake, but otherwise, you would go directly to the place you considered your home base, and basically not interact with other people on the way there, aside from basic necessities such as the guards and transportation operators.”

Harold’s blood ran cold. In a completely vulnerable state, he’d been programmed to bypass all of his usual safety precautions -- to head straight to their base of operations, and in the kind of mental fog that kept him from remembering any of the intervening steps. If Anthony (or anyone else) had followed him, he wouldn’t have noticed, let alone recalled it later.

So Elias knew about the library. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t done anything with the knowledge -- as far as Harold was aware -- but that knowledge compromised their entire operation. They couldn’t stay at the library, they’d have to find a new place, as soon as he got back… but that was even assuming that he’d remember the need to do so. Elias could mess with awareness; it was more than possible that he could alter memories, or simply program Harold to ignore the implications of this revelation. And Harold had let himself be escorted right into the vampire’s cell, where he was trapped until he’d let Elias feed from him again, bring him to that thrall state, have his way with him--

“ ** _Sit down_** ,” Elias said suddenly, firmly, and Harold turned and sat on the bed, almost without thinking. His breaths were coming faster as he thought about ways to get free, to call the guards -- no, they were likely thralls as well, or at least paid enough to look the other way -- or, or… but without the guards, there really was no escape. At this point, it wasn’t like Elias would just let him go; even if he tried to stop him, if he struggled against the feeding, it would happen anyway, Elias was too strong and it was already too late--

“You think you’re in danger,” Elias said, a little concern in his voice. “You didn’t a moment ago, but your heart rate -- what are you reacting to?”

He should never have come here, never let Elias get near him--

“Okay,” Elias mused, “that last one struck you hard. Getting home safely, without interacting with people. Did it… interfere with your mission somehow? What am I missing, Harold? What are you afraid of?”

“I never should have-- I never--” Harold gasped out, fighting the urge to run. Where would he run? He could squeeze into the corner, as far from Elias as was possible in this tiny cell, but it wouldn’t protect him. Maybe even trying to run would trigger some hunting instinct. “Oh my God, I’ve compromised everything,” he groaned.

“What are you talking about?”

“I never should have taken this deal. One session, one set of commands, and I walked you straight to our base of operations. If I’d thought about it--”

“Stop,” Elias said, holding up a hand. “I don’t know where your base is. No one followed you home.”

Harold stared at him. “Even if I could believe that you didn’t take advantage of it, there are any number of other people who could have noticed--”

“No one paid any attention to you. I swear it. When I sent you back to your base, I sent you with the greatest safety I could ensure. Aside from Anthony, the only people who could have noticed your movements would be other supernatural creatures of power greater than or equal to my own, and if any of them were in the city, I certainly would have heard of it.”

“You expect me to believe--”

“Are you familiar with the concept of a glamor?”

Frowning, Harold shook his head. “Not as a noun, no.”

“It’s basically a magical disguise. I used one on you last time. Only, instead of disguising you as a particular person, I merely made it so that people would easily ignore you. You could push through it to interact with people -- the guards, for example -- but, once you had moved on, they would forget. And those around you would glance right over you, and avoid you without really knowing why.”

Trying to wrap his head around the concept, Harold thought back on that day -- the fog he’d been in, the way it had seemed like he’d left Elias and immediately been on the stairs at the library. The fog had lifted in a place he felt safe, and… if Elias were to be believed… ensured that no one would remember his passage. If that were really the case, it was an incredibly useful power; he could well see the applications, and yet--

“I sent you straight home for your own protection,” Elias continued. “You were still in a thrall state, which would take a while to wear off, so you had to be given some level of instructions -- unless you’d prefer I left you at Rikers for a couple of hours, or have Anthony escort you to safety. I could certainly have had Anthony _follow_ you, but I did not do so. Nor did I use any powers to observe you as you went home; I trusted in my glamor to get you safely there, and, as I pointed out, I actually can’t see that far away without a thrall to focus my powers on.”

“So… you can… give me instructions, disguise me with magic, and use telepathy to get information from my head.”

“All of which I have used exclusively for your benefit, with the exception of looking up your actual given name. That was partly to help you understand my powers, of course, which I think is a fair trade for your name, but I can’t deny that it gave me some benefit at the cost of some slight detriment and discomfort to you. Still, a feeding is too intimate for false names, don’t you think?”

 _He could have done so much worse_ , Harold reminded himself, though it didn’t make up for the lack of consent. _And he’d know it soon anyway._

“I have not used my powers to harm you,” Elias continued, “or to ferret out your secrets, or to compromise your operations, and I have taken what I feel are reasonable precautions in case of inadvertent harm.”

“I see that,” Harold murmured.

“Mmm. Now, you’ll likely have forgotten part or all of the time from a little after mid-feeding through to the end of the thrall state.”

Pushing down his instinctive reaction to the idea of memory loss, Harold licked his lips. “Is that-- the blood loss?”

“I’m not taking anywhere _near_ enough to start shutting down parts of your system like that. No, that’s the thrall state kicking in. Some of the memories might return after a while, if you let them; others were never stored to begin with. So if you’re missing chunks of time, or have only vague recollections of the time when you were completely helpless, that’s normal.”

Yet another reassurance that was anything but reassuring.

Elias tilted his head. “Is there anything else you wish to know?”

 _So very much, and yet nothing I could trust you about_ , Harold thought. At the same time, part of him wanted to know nothing more about what Elias could do, what the threats were. Part of him wanted to run back home and crawl into bed, try to forget what the world was bent on reminding him: that humans were weak and helpless creatures at the mercy of forces that outclassed them by every conceivable measure. That knowledge had been unbearable enough when he’d chosen to make the Machine, a lesser evil to counter the chaos of terrorism, or when he’d had to come to terms with the government agencies he’d be turning it over to, and their ability to track and kill without any sense of due process; it had come to a peak, or so he’d thought, in the aftermath of the bombing, as he’d realized that those same government agencies would kill dozens of innocent lives just to protect the secret that he’d turned over to their keeping.

Could he have predicted that, merely two and a half years later, he’d be chatting almost amiably with a crime lord who’d killed dozens, either directly or at his command -- and who turned out to have supernatural powers that went far beyond anything Harold could guard against? That he’d be in the same cell, sitting on the same bed…

Wait. Why was he sitting on the bed? He hadn’t intended to sit down… had he just been that overwhelmed, or…?

No. _Elias had told him to sit down._

Suddenly there was something else he needed to know. He swallowed. “Give me an order,” he said, his breaths getting faster again.

“What?”

“Order me to do something. To -- to stand up. Or to look at you.”

“I told you that your free will would be intact. I can’t force you to do anything, not without the thrall state.”

“How do I know that?” Harold pressed. “You just told me to stop talking, to sit down -- I did, without even thinking about it. Maybe it’s social interplay, maybe not, but I have to _know_.”

“Hmm. Take off your shirt, then.”

Harold tensed, but didn’t feel the least compulsion to do so. Yet it wasn’t enough. He turned to face Elias. “You used that deep voice--”

“ ** _Take your shirt off, Harold_** ,” Elias said, voice dipping low and firm and sensuous as he stared Harold straight in the eyes. “ ** _Don’t waste my time._** ”

A long moment passed in silence.

“Satisfied?” Elias asked, at last.

Harold frowned. “Last time, I chose not to tell John about your true nature. Even this morning, I felt like it was important to hide the information from him, even though I’d promised never to lie to him. Did I make that choice freely, or did you influence it in any way?”

“I don’t mind John knowing,” Elias said mildly. “He might be a bit put out by the idea, but we can weather that storm when it comes. If you chose not to tell him, that’s on you.”

Harold let out a breath. The implications of that revelation would have to be dealt with later. “What about research into the supernatural?” he asked. “Any time I’ve thought of trying, it’s made me anxious, almost ill, to the point where I had to push it out of my mind just to function.”

“Well, I have the _ability_ to use my geas in a negative fashion, but I didn’t do so on you.”

“…‘Geesh’?”

“Mystical compulsion; that’s the accurate term for the instructions I can implant while you’re in a thrall state. The messages I sent were one form of geas. The direction to head home was another. I could use a geas to prevent you from doing something; it would act just like the glamor, making you uncomfortable any time you focused on the forbidden topic. It’s not impossible to push through it, but it’s difficult, and my geas would be fairly strong, unless I took pains to disguise its effects. But if I _had_ done that, you would be feeling that same discomfort now, at the same level; asking me is, after all, another form of research into the matter.”

Harold blinked; he hadn’t even thought of that. “So I’ve just been… making _myself_ sick?”

“Certainly _sounds_ like a stress reaction. Dealing with the trauma means calling up images and emotions related to the traumatizing event, so you just… avoid dealing with it. You program yourself not to think about it, and refuse to share it even with those who are closest to you, simply to ward off the anxiety caused by bringing the details to your mind.”

Pushing away thoughts of his captivity and the panic attacks he’d had after getting free, Harold frowned. “I’m… familiar with that tactic.”

“From your description, as well as your current emotional state, I expect that the feeding -- or possibly just the revelation of my nature, or the use of my powers -- was more traumatic than I had anticipated.”

Swallowing again, Harold nodded slowly. He still couldn’t be sure that Elias was telling the truth, but at least there was a rational explanation for his behavior based on purely natural phenomena. A rational explanation based on irrational human mental tricks… well, no, there was nothing inherently irrational in trying to avoid a factor -- in this case, information -- that seemed to be doing you harm -- in this case, causing severe emotional distress.

The irrational part would be avoiding a distressing thought even when avoiding it would do more harm than accepting the discomfort of confronting it. He’d have to push past that, at some point, now that he better understood what was going on in his head.

“Is there anything else?” Elias asked. “We could simply chat for a while, if you need to calm down before--”

“No, I… this is… it’s…” Harold paused, and took several quick breaths. He shook his head. “I think the rest is just a bit of… cognitive dissonance. It’s throwing me for a loop, but… I can cope.”

“Ah. You can’t take what I say at face value, or trust that I’m telling the truth about my motives and what I’ve done to you. Trying to balance two different possibilities in your head -- being this unsure about it -- must be distressing.”

“It truly is. But it doesn’t matter, because I agreed to our arrangement, and going back on my word without good reason would… cause problems.”

Elias chuckled lightly.

“So unless I had concrete evidence of you doing more than we bargained for… the deal stands. Regardless of how unpleasant it might be for me.”

“You know, the discomfort doesn’t last very long. It’s more the _idea_ of the feeding that’s causing you to think it’s unpleasant.”

Recalling some hint of that fog he’d been in, Harold grimaced. “It’s not the physical part that makes me uncomfortable. It’s the same with drugs: It robs me of my mind, makes me helpless, unable to think or react. And not having accurate memories, on top of that? That’s inherently a negative, regardless of how pleasant the physical sensations might be.”

Ever since he’d come to understand that drugs could alter his memory, or affect his ability to make decisions, he’d been a little terrified of them, and not entirely because of his father’s condition; a bad experience with an inattentive dentist had made that worse, and that was long before he’d been traumatized all over again for the surgeries that would be forever entangled with the image of Nathan’s dead face. The thought of dissociative states made him physically ill, and to think that some doctors used such states deliberately, that the patients wouldn’t even be able to recall what had happened while they hadn’t cared enough to fight it--

“You’re slipping back toward panic again,” Elias said, his words bringing Harold back to the present. When Harold glanced over at him, Elias tipped his head to the side and made a moue. “It’s understandable that you would want to keep command of your faculties. I’m afraid I can’t do much to affect that… though I suppose I could pay closer attention to the feelings of your body while I’m feeding, and put them back into your brain as memories after the fact. I don’t think they’d feel quite the same as regular memories, though, and that might be _more_ distressing.”

Quickly getting to his feet, Harold shook his head. “No, that-- that’s quite all right.” As the pain in his ankle reasserted itself, he took a few shuddering breaths. “I can handle the lapse; please refrain from altering my memories in any way.”

“Of course.”

“Let’s get this over with,” Harold said sharply, sliding off his tie. “And if you have another message to give me, I’d prefer it in some more normal way.”

Grinning, Elias got up as well. “No messages this time.”

Trying to stay calm -- trying not to picture the sharpness of the teeth sliding into his body, or feel again the growing cold just before he’d lost awareness of his surroundings -- he quickly got through half of the buttons on his shirt. Then he paused: There weren’t any chairs here. “Should I… sit on the bed?”

“No need,” Elias said, getting in his space, nearly forehead to forehead. Harold gulped and opened his shirt enough to pull it back from his neck, exposing the wounds that Elias had left on him. When Elias’s gaze fell on their location, he grinned, and Harold saw his eye teeth slowly lengthen into fangs again.

“Are you ready?” Elias asked.

Harold licked his lips, already discomfited with Elias approaching from the front instead of behind. But he was consciously trying to remain calm, to suppress any additional adrenaline response. “Yes.”

Elias lowered his head as he bridged the last space between them, wrapping his arms around Harold’s back. Anticipating the pressure on his bruised ribs, Harold braced himself, grimacing as he tilted his head to the side as much as he could, providing access. But the pain never came; Elias’s grip was perfectly positioned to avoid pressure where it would be unwelcome, and it somehow managed to shift his weight off his bad ankle as well.

Then Elias’s teeth slid in, pulling a gasp from Harold. There wasn’t as much pain as last time, and soon even that receded beneath the steady pulls of blood leaving his body. Harold tried to remind his system that they’d been through this before, that it wasn’t going to harm him. And it was easier than last time to convince himself of this; last time, he hadn’t even known whether he’d be leaving the room alive. Here, now, the throbbing of his swollen ankle was nearly gone, and his ribs no longer hurt when he breathed; even as his body cooled, he was beginning to feel that peculiar comfort, the pleasant, compelling desire to just relax into the sensations.

Still, it felt odd to just stand there, embraced by Elias, and Harold wasn’t entirely sure what to do with his hands. But, soon enough, the strength was leaving them, and he just let them dangle as he gave up trying to control even a small portion of what was happening to him. Like last time, when he couldn’t hold his head up anymore, Elias’s hand was there to cradle it -- and when his knees finally buckled, Elias’s grip held him up.

There was no pain anymore, not the bite or his ribs or his ankle, not even his regular chronic pains that at times overpowered any narcotic that still left him able to think. In Elias’s arms, he floated, his awareness once again narrowing down to that one point of pressure and movement, the connection between the vampire’s body and his own. No fear, no worries about the future or questions about the past could make it through to where he was, and that was enough, for now.

Again, he came to some awareness when Elias finally pulled out and licked the wound closed, but his mind felt sluggish, as though any thought had to trudge through deep snow to make it to the surface. He could only stare dazedly as the vampire carried him to the bed and laid him out on the thin mattress. The mattress rocked slightly as Elias took a seat by his head, and then, Harold felt a hand brushing his hair.

“You’re quite remarkable, Harold,” Elias’s voice came, as if across distant waves. “Always fighting back this fear of me. Even before you knew I was a vampire -- I couldn’t feel it like I did today, of course, but I could see it in the way you held yourself. Vampires pick up on fear, you know; it’s hard for a human to hide it from us. There aren’t many humans who _don’t_ fear us, once they know what we are. But from the moment you entered the room, I could tell that you were an expert at being terrified and still doing what needed to be done.”

Drifting to the sound of the voice, Harold let the words wash over him, not even wondering if he might remember them later.

“Anthony’s like that,” Elias continued, not hiding the fondness in his voice. “He conquers fear. He’s the one who taught _me_ to conquer fear -- even the fear of my own nature -- and to not let it stop me.” Slowly, the petting motion died down, until it was just Elias’s hand resting on Harold’s head. A moment later, Elias sighed.

“You know, when I first got turned, I was… desperate. I wasn’t sure what had happened to me, or why I felt that _hunger_ , or even, really, what I hungered _for_ ; I didn’t know the strength of my new instincts, let alone how to counter them. It was Bruce who came to check on me, and I… attacked him. Fed off my best friend, as he struggled in my arms, as the life drained from his body… until he was almost to the point of death. And once I came to myself again, I didn’t have a clue how to undo the damage I’d done.

“It was Anthony who found us -- who carried Bruce back to the home, who made sure he got medical attention… and then came back for me. I was horrified by what I had become, what I had done; I expected him to shun me, or turn me over to the police, maybe kill me himself for hurting Bruce, but… he held me and consoled me, let me cry in his arms. I didn’t know at the time that he was almost as scared as I was -- he told me that later, _years_ later, in the honesty after a feeding before he’d quite gotten back to himself. I don’t think he would have ever mentioned it to me, otherwise.”

Letting out a sigh, Elias rubbed his thumb lightly along Harold’s cheek; Harold stared up at him, vaguely enjoying the sensation. “Later on, it was Anthony who worked out what had happened to me, and how to keep my sire away so she couldn’t enthrall me. Eventually, it was Anthony’s hand that killed her… the first of many times he’s shed blood on my account. Well… not blood, exactly, but the metaphor’ll do for now.”

He got off the bed, and Harold heard his footsteps, then felt gentle, warm pressure on his ankle. “And in the midst of it all,” Elias continued, “as I was coming to grips with my new nature, with the knowledge that I had almost killed Bruce, with the awareness that I had powers I didn’t understand and couldn’t properly control -- when I was at my weakest, Anthony forced himself past his own fear and mine, and convinced me to feed off him.” The heat increased, staying just under the threshold to actual pain. “We didn’t even know if it was possible for me to stay in control while I fed, or to feed without harming the donor, but he wasn’t about to let me die, or to let me starve until I _really_ wasn’t in charge of my actions. Not while he could do anything about it. And I didn’t realize how terrified he really was until partway through the feeding, when the bond established itself and I could feel his emotions almost as clearly as my own.”

Then the pressure left, and the warmth slowly faded. Approaching the bed again, Elias stared down at Harold. “That’s a rare trait, you see: Being terrified and doing what you have to do anyway. The kind of people who start out with that trait tend to aim for careers as first responders, or the military -- not hackers. Not hiding behind a computer screen, shielded from the world. Your injuries aren’t so old that they’d prevent you from choosing a more active career, and your skills aren’t the type that you could develop in just a few years; they’re a dedicated effort that I suspect has been lifelong.

“Which says to me that you, my friend,” and he crouched down by the bed, nearly out of Harold’s sight, “are the kind of person who got this trait late in life, when your career prospects had already been established.” Hands slipped in under Harold’s shirt, but he couldn’t care about them, even as the strange warm pressure began again. “Some personal trauma that gave you the backbone -- pardon the expression -- to rise to the challenges you’ve had to face. I might surmise a connection between that event and your grand quest to save random strangers, whether they’re babies or hitmen or poor inner-city teachers.” He sighed, and the pressure receded. “But that’s a conversation for a time when you’re not under thrall. You seem ready to get to your feet again; might be time to get you out of here.”

The world tilted as Elias raised Harold to a sitting position, and Harold stared dumbly at the crime lord, who smiled at him. “I did forget to ask if you wanted this done differently,” Elias said, “but I doubt you’d like to spend a couple hours in prison when you could be using part of that time to get home.”

And then, again, he lost himself in those deep brown eyes.

* * * * *

* * * *

* * * * *

The first thing he was aware of was a sudden bright pain in his eye, and he cringed away, rubbing at his face.

He heard water running, and tried to blink the dots out of his vision; then a cup was being pressed to his lips; he recoiled, grimacing, until he looked up and realized that it was… John.

“What--”

“It’s just water, Finch. You… look a little pale.”

As Harold took the cup from John and sipped it, he studied the worried expression on his partner’s face. Glancing around, he realized that he was in the library, sitting on a sofa just outside the gate.

…there hadn’t been a sofa there yesterday.

He glanced at John. Now that he could pay closer attention to his surroundings, he noted that the agent looked winded, his clothes more than a little rumpled and showing some decided sweat stains. Not to mention that they weren’t his customary suit: He was wearing a blank white v-neck and dark green sweat pants. With sneakers.

“I… take it you did a… a little shopping today?” Harold asked, before taking another sip of water. “How _did_ you manage to… get a sofa up here all by… by yourself?”

“Not too hard if you know basic leverage. Having trouble breathing there, Finch?”

Harold took a deep breath. “It’ll pass. I… I guess I never thought of… sprucing the place up a bit.”

“Because you looked really pale while climbing those stairs.”

“Did I?” Harold glanced over, as if that could somehow jog his memory. Everything before the sofa was just… a fog.

“You got any new injuries I should know about?”

Frowning, Harold stared at his cup. “Not since yesterday.”

“That ankle causing you problems?”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” he replied, suddenly aware -- now that his attention had been called to it -- that his ankle didn’t hurt nearly as bad as might be expected after limping from the bus stop to the library and then up the stairs. Was it merely the aftereffects of the thrall? But no… when he tested it, his ankle had much greater freedom of movement than before; it wasn’t swollen.

“Any other pain? Dizziness?”

“Is there a point to this interrogation?” Harold asked sharply, glaring at John.

“Did anybody give you anything?” John persisted. “Drugs? Anything to eat or drink?”

“What are you getting at?”

John passed a hand over his mouth. “Look, Finch, you were walking around in a…” He cast about. “I don’t even know the term, but like you weren’t even there. Coming up the back alley to the library. And I tried to get your attention, but you didn’t respond, not even when I was right next to you. I was starting to think you’d had a _stroke_ or something. Your pupils are even, your pulse is a little fast but not bad, you’re talking fine and your face isn’t any less symmetrical than normal for you, but… I’ve never seen you that out of it. Not even paying attention to who might be following you or anything.”

Closing his eyes, Harold tried to picture his route from Rikers to here -- but it was too foggy to get a grip on it. “Mr. Reese… I’m not even sure where my head was a few minutes ago. But--”

“Memory gaps? That could be drugs. Did you--”

“ _Mr. Reese._ ” He let out a breath. “I’m fine. I was running errands; I haven’t been hurt, or drugged, or hit my head, or whatever else you might be thinking. In fact, I feel much better than I did this morning. If you’re not too busy installing furniture, I wouldn’t mind sharing a late lunch with you, if it’ll put your mind at ease. Although,” he said, giving John a pointed look, “I could recommend a change of clothes, first.”

Glancing at his disheveled outfit, John chuckled. “I figured that wheeling a couch around was conspicuous enough without also being dressed in a suit.”

A smile quirked Harold’s lips. “Do we need to drop by your loft?”

“Nah, I keep a couple changes here, too. Don’t go anywhere,” he said, and jogged off between some shelves.

Harold let out a sigh. Despite his aversion to that kind of intrusive concern, it _was_ gratifying to know that John was looking out for him, and had the skills to diagnose medical emergencies in a timely manner. On the other hand… at this rate, his secret couldn’t keep much longer. And being returned in a thrall-state fog wasn’t helping; he’d have to talk with Elias about that.

The next time that he saw him.


	3. Extrication

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their latest case has left John in a tight spot, and Harold's trying to figure out how to extricate him when things get even worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you thought this fic was just going to be five basic feedings and a lot of talking about vampires… well, not exactly.
> 
>  **Content Warnings:** The baddie's fond of drug cocktails and torture, but this just gets mentioned, not used (yet).

“That’s two servers down,” John murmured across the earpiece.

“I’m glad that your efforts have accomplished something,” Harold replied, tersely. “Now, will you please just get _out_ of there?” On the camera feeds, Rampton’s men were moving in and up, quickly cutting off passages of escape that Harold could have offered just minutes ago.

“Working on the third….”

“As much as I appreciate your ability to deal with dangerous situations, Mr. Reese, there is something to be said for a judicious retreat.”

“Worried about me, Finch?”

“When am I _not?_ ” Harold shot back, eliciting a whine from Bear. At Harold’s irritated glance, Bear put his head down on his paws. “When I said that we’d most likely end up dead, I hardly meant to imply that we should seek death _out_.”

“Well,” John said lightly, “it’s not like they’d kill me right away.”

“If your intention was to comfort me,” Harold replied, "it's not working." Besides his skill with blackmail, Dr. Edric Rampton was known -- in the underworld, at least -- for his interest in drug cocktails, and not the type that anyone would _want_ to get into their system. Interrogation was one of his specialties, but he had just as much interest in exploring the limits of the human body, especially when it came to pain.

If John didn’t get out of there in time… if the men brought John down, but didn’t kill him… Harold knew that John had borne up under long hours of torture before, but Rampton’s methods were on a whole different level. Drugs that could strip away your mind, your ability to process, could break you down until there was nothing left but the fear and the pain. The very thought sent chills running down Harold’s spine: He was not about to let John go through that kind of hell.

And for all that John had been in the CIA -- been thoroughly trained in resistance techniques for any number of drugs -- Rampton would almost certainly be able to worm his way into John’s mind. Every piece of info in John’s head would be at risk, everything from his covert experiences to the details that Harold had given him on the existence of the Machine and its particular means of communication. Their entire operation could go down _tonight_ \-- with repercussions that went far beyond the Numbers.

Failure wasn’t an option here. But retreat still was -- if John would only _listen_.

“You know what we’re up against, Mr. Reese. You cannot _afford_ to get caught.”

“We’re not going to get a second chance at this,” John said, moving on to the fourth server.

“I’m less concerned with bringing down his operation than with the chances of you getting out of that building intact.”

John chuckled. “You know, it’s kind of nice to have a handler who actually cares about my welfare… not just about the mission.”

That brought Harold up short. “What?”

“With Mark, or Kara, it was only ever about the assignment. They never hesitated to send me into danger; why would they? And when they rescued me from a mission gone wrong, it wasn’t because they cared about me; it was because the CIA had invested a lot of time and effort into training me, and they didn’t want to lose an asset.” On the camera, John kept typing, somehow managing to handle the conversation and the task at the same time, with no obvious loss of efficiency. “And I thought you were the same way,” he continued, “at first. You’d managed to find a valuable asset who was in desperate need of a reason to keep moving, and you could give me that. Finding a replacement of similar quality would’ve been… difficult.”

“I--” Harold wanted to counter it, wanted to say _I never thought of you that way_ … but the words stuck in his throat. Because, at the start, he _had_ thought of John that way. He’d needed an asset; he’d found one, unexpectedly perfect for the job, and Harold had been in a position to make the perfect offer, a mix of purpose and mystery, a clear direction forward and a way to shake off some of the demons of John’s past, driving them away with the force of pure altruism. But it had taken Harold some time to learn how to trust John; their early interactions had been steeped in wariness, suspicion, even stark terror on a few occasions when John had proved to be more perceptive than Harold had expected.

When he had gotten past that? Accepted that John was more than just a guy on his payroll, an employee entrusted with sensitive information only to the extent that it was unavoidable? When had John become someone that Harold truly cared about?

“I didn’t understand the kind of man you are,” John was saying, “until I saw you on the floor of the evidence lockup… saw the fear in your eyes, covered over with resolve, and realized that you’d just put yourself into the middle of a possible firefight in order to protect me.”

Harold swallowed. That incident seemed so long ago, but he could still feel the pounding of his heart as he saw the guns. He could still remember the way his eyes couldn’t help but squeeze shut a little, as he wondered if perhaps his prediction would be coming to pass a lot sooner than he had hoped. When he had expressed to Detective Carter that he’d been in fear of his life, he hadn’t even had to stretch the truth.

But the alternative -- to leave John at the mercy of a double-cross? _Unthinkable_.

A fond smile crossed John’s face. “That’s when I realized that whatever else you were hiding from me, it didn’t matter. You’d go to any lengths to keep me in the game. I’ve never had a handler who cared enough for my safety to risk their own. And then when you risked even more to save my life -- when coming to get me could have revealed your face to the CIA and destroyed any chance you had to stay off their radar -- that’s when I knew that I wasn’t just an asset to you. Even if that’s how you saw me at the beginning, it wasn’t anymore.”

For a long moment, there was only the quiet clacking of keys as John typed and Harold processed. The moment didn’t last: Rampton’s men flooded into a new camera feed, and Harold could only be glad that John had already disabled the elevators, which not only slowed the agents but left them winded and surely less alert than they would have been with a less strenuous ascent.

“Mr. Reese, they’re already on the eighth floor.”

“Duly noted.”

“Mr. Molony is no longer at risk; there’s no need to--”

“When I leave this building, Rampton won’t have a shred of blackmail information left on _anyone_ ,” John said calmly, his voice still low. “Now that you’ve taken care of his digital holdings, and I’ve burnt what was in the safe, he’s gonna be hurting for money. If I don’t take care of this now, guess who’s gonna make up the bulk of our cases for the next few weeks?”

With a frustrated groan, Harold buried his head in his hands, trying to come up with an argument that would make John take his own safety seriously for once. Because, of course, John was right: A blackmail artist who’d just had his funding wiped off the map would simply bring out all the data he’d been sitting on for years, and shake down every victim he’d ever acquired. John’s efforts were aimed at taking that crutch away from him, perhaps driving him out of the city altogether. It would be quite the boon for the people that Rampton had been keeping under his thumb.

But it didn’t change the calculation. As it was, John would hardly be getting out of the building unscathed; his efforts had attracted far too much attention in just the past eight minutes. If he stuck around to kill the rest of the servers, Harold didn’t see him making it out _at all_. Or, at least, the chances were too slim to bet on.

If Rampton didn’t have _quite_ so many agents in play -- but even though they’d chosen the most deserted time of night, the lower floors held dozens of guards. Once security had realized that the camera feeds for the server room had been tampered with, it had started a stampede up the stairwells, heading straight for John.

Then again, if Harold had been able to get ahold of the blueprints in a timely manner -- but without them, he was stuck trying to piece together location data from the camera viewpoints. Was this how the Machine felt? Trying to build an awareness of the whole from all the little incomplete pieces it was fed? Harold was good at spatial reasoning, but this was taxing even his considerable skill at conceptualizing the data. Which meant that he wouldn’t be able to react fast enough to changing circumstances, wouldn’t be able to direct John toward the best options for evading Rampton’s forces.

At the very least, he did have eyes on the whole building; redirecting the camera feeds to the library had been Harold’s task, at the start of this mission, when he’d come in as tech support and fiddled with the security station, preparing for John’s infiltration later on. Now that it was clear that John was not going to make it out of the building unnoticed, Harold was glad that he’d thought to erase all the footage of his visit, and, for that matter, to change his wardrobe for the task, thus erasing his most defining feature. The best that Rampton was going to get in the aftermath would be the description of a short, middle-aged man with an awkward smile and a limp. More than Harold would like them to have, certainly, but much less dangerous than a single still image would have been.

Right now, those stolen camera feeds were their saving grace, as Harold saw the stairwell door burst open -- just as John murmured, “Last one.”

“They’re on your floor, John -- you have to go _now_. Please, just drop the mission and leave.”

“I’ve had to abort some missions before. Just call it a loss and get out of there. Not often, but it happens.”

“Which is why you’re not moving,” Harold rejoined, staring daggers at him through the screen.

The corner of John’s mouth turned up. “Well. I don’t think this is one of those times. Guess we’ll see.”

If Rampton’s men hadn’t just run up nearly a dozen flights of stairs, they’d surely have been there by now; Harold watched their progress through the cameras, imagining their wheezing, panting breaths as they struggled to keep moving. His own breath was coming faster; John couldn’t possibly get out of the room in time -- not unseen.

“There are times,” Harold groused, because it helped redirect his anxiety, “that I’ve been forced to wish that you weren’t _quite_ so dedicated to this job.”

John’s voice hummed lightly over the airwaves. “I got used to doing whatever was necessary to complete the assignment. You’re the one who gave me a reason to go above and beyond. This is more than a _job_ , Finch… it’s the whole reason I’m still alive.”

“And it’s going to get you _killed_ if you don’t get out of there before--”

“Don’t trust my judgment, then?”

“If I thought you counted your own welfare as part of the equation--”

“It’s done, Finch,” John cut him off, as the last screen went down. Wasting no time, he strode off toward the exit. For a moment, Harold was irritated that he hadn’t taken off at a run -- but then he realized that it would have made too much noise.

When a half-dozen agents burst in, John was behind the door, and at Harold’s whispered “Go!” he slipped out the same door that they’d just come in, heading silently down the hallway with only Harold’s eagle eyes to watch his back.

Harold’s heart was pounding in his throat as John hurried down the stairwell. When the second wave of agents was almost up to his level, John left the stairs and ghosted through a cubicle farm, ducking low and avoiding any line-of-sight between him and the exits. Twice, Harold spotted an agent coming in to scan the room, and John obediently hid under a desk until the danger had passed, then kept moving; Harold was sure that John shared his relief at the agents being less than thorough in their attempt to corner their prey.

The cat-and-mouse game continued as John made it down another floor, and then three more all at once, as the ebb and flow of agents left an unexpectedly fortuitous gap. So far, there had been no sightings, no run-ins. Rampton’s men had gone straight for the eleventh floor, where the most important information was kept, but after that point they seemed to be at a loss. Almost a third of them had gone up higher, to the floors John had already taken care of, while the rest were running around in small groups, overlooking plenty of hiding spots while checking other places repeatedly. It was obvious that they were neither trained enough nor coordinated enough to manage a systematic search, and Harold wondered -- but didn’t ask -- if John had somehow realized this from observing them earlier.

Whatever the case, the effect was welcome: John made it all the way down to the fourth floor before the gaps closed down completely. Harold directed him toward a maintenance corridor that at least got him out of the more active areas, which gave John a bit of a breather. At least the cameras were down -- once deceiving security was no longer an option, he’d simply killed the feed to the entire building, so the only one observing any of the footage was Harold.

The feeds weren’t looking all that hopeful. The guards had begun grouping up, actively blocking the exits, and John was still too high up to exit from a window -- even if the windows opened, which they didn’t. Harold had next to no information on the basement or any possible access tunnels that might provide an alternative means of leaving the building, and the guards had the elevator in sight on all three of the lowest floors.

Perhaps if John had been able to secure a uniform earlier, he could have blended in, but there was no chance of getting one now, not without tackling a group of at least three guards. And the guards had guns. Even if John could get the drop on them, a gunshot was going to ring out, and that would draw every agent in the building toward him, turning his extrication from ‘highly improbable’ to ‘impossible’ in a heartbeat. That wasn’t the only reason that John’s gun was still holstered, but it was a significant one, ranking only slightly lower than their mutual decision to never kill unless absolutely necessary.

If John was going to get out of the building, it might become necessary; speed and stealth weren’t up to the task on their own. But it wasn’t like John had brought a handful of magazines; he had, what, a dozen bullets, maybe? Twice that, if he had a refill. More, if he could grab the guards’ guns, but all of that was going down a path that led nowhere Harold wanted to see him go, whether for the short-term dangers to his life or the long-term dangers to his soul.

What other options did they have, though? Fusco, Carter, Morgan… all too far away, and Harold couldn’t think how any one of them could manage an extrication at this stage of the game. The only one they knew who might have leverage on Rampton was Elias, and he’d been missing for three weeks, having apparently decided that Rikers wasn’t such an ideal staging area for his efforts to retake Brighton Beach. Perhaps if Harold had known how to contact Elias, they’d’ve been able to handle this case without putting John in this position to begin with -- but no, they couldn’t count him among their assets anymore.

A spoofed fire alarm was unlikely to call off the dogs. Killing the power to the building might’ve given John an edge, but Harold was in no position to do that. He could… he could call 911, make it look like the call came from inside the building, have John fake a heart attack or an allergic reaction… but could John last the ten minutes it would take them to get there? If he could manage that, it did improve his chances of getting out, but it also raised the possibility of collateral damage. Rampton’s operations stayed under radar, and he wouldn’t appreciate any police investigation, but it didn’t matter: The guards weren’t the best-trained operatives, and they were already jumpy. Neither Harold nor John would care to risk a medic’s life in a potential firefight.

As Harold was considering, he saw John pull out his gun and inspect it. Harold must have made a noise -- or perhaps John simply imagined his reaction, because he smiled thinly up at the camera and slid the gun back into its holster.

“Any good news, Finch?” he asked, voice still low.

“I’m afraid I can’t see a path for you, John,” Harold replied. “I don’t have enough information to-- oh my god. Rampton’s in the building.”

“Just got here?” John’s voice was a little sharper, more alert.

“Just got out of a van in the parking garage.” Cursing himself for not hooking in to audio communication -- or the external cameras, come to think of it -- Harold scrambled to make up for the lack of warning, but it didn’t give them any extra openings; the guards were just as thick as they had been a moment ago, minus a couple that met Rampton and escorted him toward the stairs. The glower on Rampton’s face spoke ill for whoever had managed to encroach upon his territory.

And John was trapped behind enemy lines.

They didn’t have time to come up with a better plan. The chance of John remaining hidden until an ambulance got there was pretty low, but if the medics got there, the odds of John getting out of the building went up significantly. And while Rampton might not be able to keep his men under wraps, the odds were better now that he was on site; shooting a few medics in his own office building would lead to just the sort of attention he didn’t want, especially after tonight’s security breach.

Ethically, drawing civilians into this kind of danger unawares was wrong, and Harold knew it. But he wasn’t willing to set that moral standard against John’s life. Not tonight. Not given the stakes. Not when he couldn’t think up any better options. Not when he could see Rampton’s men drawing closer to John’s hiding spot.

Tonight, survival took precedence.

“They’re close, John,” he said. “Don’t make a sound. I can see you, so nod or shake your head. Do you think you can last fifteen minutes without getting caught?”

A slow, thoughtful nod -- not a very confident one, but enough.

“I’m going to call an ambulance. Can you fake an allergic reaction?”

John’s eyes shot wide, but then he shook his head, waving off the idea with one hand.

“Not an allergy? A heart attack, then?” John’s finger and thumb measured off a small distance. Harold was close. “A stroke?”

John nodded.

“Okay, I’ll call in a stroke.” His fingers were already on the keys, rerouting the upcoming call so it directed the ambulance to the right spot. “Just evade them until the ambulance gets there. Just ten, fifteen minutes. I’ll try to--”

The only warning was a fearful whine from Bear, and then it was as though all the lights had gone dim, the heat sucked out of the room. Sudden as a flash flood, a coiling blackness rushed at Harold, a tremendous force that lifted him off his feet and carried him backwards, slammed him against the bookshelf and held him there. Before he could catch his breath, the pressure bent his head to the side -- just a little, barely to the point of pain -- and then teeth were sliding into the juncture between shoulder and neck, as if finding their home.

It took him a moment to get the breath to gasp out, “Elias?”

There was nothing slow or gentle about the feeding, nothing like the first two times; each pull was swift, almost desperate, coming on the tails of the last one, draining Harold so quickly that his stomach turned over and his vision blurred; he felt dizzy, disoriented.

Putting his hands out, he tried to shove Elias off, but there was nothing there to push against, no corporeal form. Whatever force was holding him was nothing like an actual physical body, although the teeth felt real enough, and the blood had to be going _somewhere_. But the force was strong enough to pin him in midair, and to make him struggle to get each breath.

“Elias, _please_ ,” Harold managed, barely able to make out the laptop screen through the growing darkness; he didn’t even know if the room was getting darker, or just his perception of it. “You can’t-- I have to-- _John’s in trouble!_ Please--”

But if Elias heard him, or understood him, he gave no sign. And no matter how Harold struggled and writhed, trying to break free, the feeding went on unabated. Soon enough, he didn’t have the strength to keep fighting, and his arms fell limply to his sides. It was getting harder and harder to pull in air; his pleas turned to gasps and then faded away altogether.

As Harold began to succumb to the mind-numbing effect of the thrall state, he heard a sudden _crack!_ across his earpiece. There was a groan, too, layered with suppressed pain. It took him a moment, blinking, to recognize the sounds, to put them in context -- and then his stomach bottomed out again.

He couldn’t even see the screen anymore, and the voices that came over the airwaves were muffled and difficult to make out. _Well, now_ , and _You’ve caused me quite the headache tonight_ and the sounds of a struggle, and then a loud _pop!_ before everything was suddenly silent and cold.

**Author's Note:**

> Now that the distractions are almost gone from the house (it's been a _long_ month), I may be able to get back to writing on a schedule. I had a schedule this month, I just wasn't able to devote enough time and concentration to meet it. However, I'm still hopeful for the second half of the month, here.
> 
> By the by, whenever life gets in the way of my projects (whether the project in question is my YouTube channel or my writing or whatever), I try to post some sort of explanation on my Twitter account. So if you'd like more up-to-date info on what's going on that might interfere with my writing schedule, please do check my Twitter feed:  
> <https://twitter.com/ArkylieZaniida>


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